A Failing in Diplomacy
by Evandar
Summary: Oneshot. In which Prince Loki of Jotunheim is on a diplomatic visit to Asgard and is confronted by idiots, outdated textbooks, drunken revelry, and morning sickness. Needless to say, he is not impressed. AU, mild Angrboda/Loki, mentions of hermaphrodite pregnancy, racism.


**Disclaimer:** I do not own _Thor_ and am making no profit from this.

**AN:** This was written for a prompt on Norsekink (which is far too long to include in full) which asked for Prince Loki of Jotunheim visiting Asgard on a diplomatic visit and _not_ being impressed. They asked for racism, the Aesir looking upon Jotnar as 'noble savages' when in fact the Jotnar had a complex and advanced culture. This is what I ended up with.

* * *

A Failing in Diplomacy

by Evandar

True to all the books he has read, and the stories he has been told, his first glimpse of Asgard is a truly incredible sight. Warm, evening sunlight glints off golden spires in the distance, and the Bifrost shimmers with all colours of the rainbow beneath his feet. He glances briefly over the edge and swallows before backing away, suddenly nervous. There are no handrails, and it is a very long way to fall.

Waiting for them are horses. Loki has seen them before, on other realms, though he's never ridden one. In this case he appreciates the sentiment. The citadel is a long way away. By the time it reaches it, the Bifrost is narrowed to a single, shining dot. Loki suspects he can only see the buildings so well because of their size and the metal they seem to be made out of.

Aelfred, his fellow diplomat, is watching him with a smile, as though Loki's reactions are what he'd thought they would be. The Ás is a pleasant enough person – very clever, and Loki likes that about him – but sometimes grating. Sometimes Loki thinks he looks at him as though he's a child. It's annoying, but he learned to hold his tongue a long time ago – he's been in enough meetings and negotiations to know that there are vast differences between his people and those of the other realms. He just wishes that all of the Aesir didn't have the same habit of being smug about it.

"Beautiful, isn't it," Aelfred says.

"Yes," Loki agrees. _If,_ he thinks, _you are overly fond of gold._ But there is something about the towering spires that reminds him a little of home, and this visit is – apparently – the pinnacle of his career so he keeps that thought to himself.

The horse they give him is saddled and harnessed and he has no idea how to actually mount it. In the way the way that animals do, it seems to sense his discomfort and shifts, stamping its hooves down dangerously close to his toes. Truthfully, Loki has never ridden any animal – the few beasts able to be put to harness on Jotunheim are reserved for transporting large shipments of goods, and are far too large for Loki to even consider – and he is not looking forward to the prospect.

But the Asgardian sun is beginning to get to him, and his hosts are waiting, and any further delay would be disrespectful. He calls seidr to his fingertips and teleports himself into the saddle, slipping his feet into the stirrups and quickly picking up the reigns when the horse shifts again. His new position grants him a clearer view over the side of the Bifrost and into the void, and he shudders. Aelfred stifles a laugh, and Loki grits his teeth in response, not deigning to comment.

They move on.

…

Up close, the citadel is almost blinding. His initial assumption that the city is made of metal seems to be accurate – certainly, if it is not constructed of it, then it has been gilded with it – and it has a discomforting effect on his eyes.

Jotnar are nocturnal by nature, the glare of their sun reflecting off an entire planet's-worth of ice and snow has led to his people avoiding it in favour of the gentler glow of their three moons. Though like all nocturnal beings, they are capable of moving about during the day, they prefer not to. Loki is no exception to this. His eyes are stinging by the time they arrive at the palace gates, and the little skin he has exposed – his hands, neck and face – is tingling from exposure to the light and the heat. He's uncomfortable, and the stares that the guards give him as they open the (golden) gates do nothing to alleviate that. He hears them whisper as he rides into the courtyard, but doesn't catch the exact words.

It is the Queen who waits for them, standing upon (golden, of course) stairs with the doors to the palace open behind her. Loki had heard as many stories of her beauty as he had of Asgard's before coming here, and again they have proved true. She is strange to his eyes, with her fair, unmarked skin and pale hair and eyes, but she is truly lovely to look upon.

Beside him, Aelfred dismounts with a practised move; one that Loki has no desire to imitate. Instead, he dismounts the same way he mounted, and when he catches the animal's eye before a servant takes it away, he's not entirely sure which of them is more relieved he is no longer on it. He moves swiftly to Aelfred's side and awaits the Queen's descent towards them.

She glides down the steps, perfectly poised and controlled. Her speech is clear when she greets him, and warm. He returns the gesture with a bow in the manner of her own people, and his own greeting – carefully planned out – and for a moment he thinks he's surprised her somehow, before her expression smoothes out once more.

He's confused by her reaction, but follows her into the palace anyway. Aelfred does most of the talking – Loki is content to answer those questions directed only at himself and to inspect his surroundings.

The halls are light and airy, and decorated with frescoes showing the great deeds of Asgard and its warriors. The floors are marble, wonderfully cold through the material of his slippers, and the air itself is colder. He finds himself breathing easier. As they walk, the sheer number of staircases they pass and climb strikes him as odd – the Aesir apparently lack the ability to make lifts – the moving platforms that carry his people from one floor of their towers to another.

"I imagine Asgard is very different from Jotunheim," the Queen says. It's not a question, but it is one at the same time.

Loki nods to her. "It is, Your Majesty," he says. There are similarities in the architecture – tall and grand with great spires jutting up towards the sky – but they are minor when compared to the sheer scale and number of the differences. "Very different." He's not entirely sure what else to say, because she hasn't asked his opinion, or what Jotunheim is like. He settles for "I am looking forward to my stay here."

And he is, truly, though he will miss his home as he always does when he is away. He will miss his husband and their boisterous little Jormungandr (though he is growing fast and is no longer quite so little), he will miss his brothers and his parents and the cold and the dark. But this important – Asgard is the most prosperous of the Nine Realms, and their relationship with Jotunheim has always been tense and a little hostile – and it has become painfully necessary over the past few years.

"We are glad to have you," she replies. They continue down the corridor in silence for a time, before she speaks again. "You speak Asgardian very well," she says. "How did you come to learn it?"

Loki can't quite stop his eyebrows from rising slightly. Asgardian is only the most commonly spoken language in all of the Nine Realms. Finding a tutor for the subject had been an easy task for his parents, and he (along with both of his brothers) has been fluent in the language since their youth. It hadn't been that hard to learn, either – its syllables weren't entirely incompatible with his native speech – though it had taken him a while to get used to the Asgardian habit of giving everything, even inanimate objects, a gender.

"I had tutors, Majesty, from a young age," he says. "My King deemed it necessary for me to learn. I have also had a great amount of practise. Asgardian is, after all, the language of diplomacy."

For all that it liked to label things into neat little boxes and refused any sort of ambiguity whatsoever.

"Yes, of course," she says. Then, "You are a prince among your people?"

This should have already been explained to her, if it wasn't already obvious from his matronymic name. He glances briefly at Aelfred before nodding. "I am. I am the eldest of King Laufey's children."

She frowns slightly. "And yet you refer to him as your king rather than your father," she says.

Loki blinks at that, not entirely certain he likes the implication that is hidden behind her soft tone. "I do so out of respect for his position," he explains, "not due to a distance between us." _And besides,_ he thinks, _Laufey is my mother._

She softens at that, though barely. "I cannot imagine my son doing the same," she says.

Loki wonders if he's offended her somehow. Certainly, _he_ is feeling a little offended. He wants to be charitable and put it down to a difference between their peoples, and if it is then he should be generous and allow his hurt to slide, but there's something in the way she said it that niggles him just as much as her surprise at his greeting, and the looks the guards had given him.

He gives her the benefit of the doubt. "It is, perhaps, a difference between our cultures, Majesty."

He hopes it's only that.

"Perhaps," she says, and the smile she gives him is oddly pitying.

Apparently not.

…

The quarters he is given are comfortable, at least. Very comfortable, and lavishly decorated with artfully painted ceilings and walls and yet more gold decorating the fixtures. The bed too is huge; easily as large as his bed at home, which fits both himself and Angrboda comfortably. He draws the curtains, blocking out the sun and a view of the garden, and stretches out upon it. Immediately, he regrets it. The bed is softer than he is accustomed to, and far too large for him to lie in alone.

He has an hour to himself before he must present himself at the feast the Aesir are apparently holding in his honour. He is the first Jotun to set foot in their realm since Bestla Bolthornson was (briefly) made their Queen. It was, he knows, with his time here that the difficulties began between Asgard and Jotunheim. There had been accusations, and counter accusations of imagined slights, and in the end Bestla had abandoned Asgard and the child he had borne (an unthinkable thing for a Jotun to do and a sign that something _had_ to have been truly wrong) and had started five thousand years of diplomatic headaches.

It's not hard to imagine how lonely he must have felt in this shining, opulent city filled with heat and sunlight and stares. Loki presses a hand to his stomach, feeling the slight curve of his belly and wonders how – having felt life grow within him – Bestla could ever have felt desperate enough to abandon it.

He dozes for half of his hour's reprieve before sliding off the bed and going in search of the washroom. When he finds it, through an interconnecting door, he snorts with laughter. Even the fixtures in _here_ are gilded. Asgard's obsession with metals is becoming somewhat disturbing (though amusing all the same).

He washes quickly and pulls on fresh – more elaborate clothing – before he turns his attentions to his hair. Some of the jade pins holding it in place have slipped and errant curls fall about his face and shoulders before he draws them back again. When he steps back to study himself in the full-length (gilt-framed) mirror that leans in the corner of his temporary home, he cannot help but admire his reflection. The black leather hose he wears cling nicely to his legs, while the layered tunics will hide the swell of his unborn child – just beginning to show – as well as his sun-sensitive skin from the stares of his Asgardian hosts.

Loki is beautiful, and he knows it. It does not stop him from feeling nervous, however, because he's still the first Jotun to stand in Asgard's (overly) golden halls in five thousand years.

He takes a deep breath and heads for the door.

…

He is announced at the door to the great hall by a guard who can barely seem to believe what he's saying.

"Crown Prince Loki Laufeyjarson of Jotunheim."

And with that, Loki is in, and – he feels – far out of his depth. The hall goes silent as soon as he steps into it. There are stares, and then nudges, and then the whispers start, hissing like dying fires. The temptation to teleport out of there and leave a clone in his place is a powerful one, particularly when he hears an Ás female say "he's not dressed like they are in the books" with such an offended tone that it sets his teeth on edge.

He keeps his eyes forward and keeps walking, head held high, to the high table. Odin Bestlason (Borson, on this realm, he must remember) is flanked by his wife and a young, golden-haired Ás male who can only be his son – Loki's counterpart, Prince Thor. They are a striking family, as ridiculously golden as their kingdom, and he bites the inside of his cheek to stop the inappropriate smile that threatens to rise to his lips. They stand as Loki approaches, and – as soon as he's at a proper distance – he bows in greeting.

"My greetings, Odin Allfather, and those of Laufey, my King. You honour us greatly with your hospitality." Diplomatic greetings have always been one of Loki's pet-peeves when it comes to his job. He prefers witty repartee and meaningful debates. The thick coating of platitudes that cover greetings is far too obvious for his tastes.

But it's his job, and – for the most part – he likes his job.

"It is our greatest wish that this is a sign for closer ties between our realms," he finishes, straightening his back to look at the Asgardian royal family once more.

They're looking at him like he's performed some sort of clever trick. Norns forbid they ever find out what he's really capable of if his pretty words impress them this much.

"It is our honour to host you, Loki Laufeyjarson," Odin says after a moment's pause. "All of Asgard is open to you, as it is out hope that you are comfortable here."

Loki sincerely doubts that. All of Asgard will not be open to him – their famed weapons vault, for example, will most likely be off-limits – but it's a nice enough platitude. He almost misses the hints that he's there only to learn from them rather than impart any of his peoples' knowledge or open trade routes – the implications so cleverly hidden behind layers of welcoming words.

The implications that he is less than them, somehow.

He takes the seat that they offer him at the head table, and declines the mead and the wine in favour of water – he refuses to put his baby at risk, even for diplomacy's sake – which he chills to a suitable temperature with a touch. As he sips, he studies those around him. There is a dark-haired female giving him a faintly hostile look from further down the table where she sits by Prince Thor's side. There is a male sitting opposite her with very light hair on both his head and his upper lip, whose look is decidedly less hostile, but in a way that makes Loki's stomach turn.

More guests arrive, Aelfred amongst them, and his fellow diplomat is placed at his side. Loki offers him a smile in greeting, and answers his question about how he likes his chambers with a "They are most comfortable, thank you".

When the food comes, it is elaborate. There are roasted meats of many varieties, platters and tureens of roots and brightly coloured vegetables, bowls of fruits, sweet pastries in the hundreds. There is no fish that Loki sees, no aquatic plants, and very little that he actually recognises immediately. But it is far from the first time he has been presented with unfamiliar foods, and when the feasting begins, he helps himself to a little of everything within reach – hoping to find something he will enjoy as he usually does in such situations. The pastries in particular are promising.

But, apparently, his behaviour is once again cause for exclamation. Whispers of "He's very well mannered for a Jotun" and "His etiquette is rather good – Lord Aelfred must have instructed him" reach his ears, and he stabs his fork – strange utensil that it is – into his bird-meat a little harder than strictly necessary.

Why is his ability to do his job so shocking to these people? Do they really think his mother would have sent someone inexperienced and ill-educated to perform such an important task?

His appetite is lost, but he forces himself to eat though it tastes like ash in his mouth. His stomach rebels when he catches sight of another of Prince Thor's companions – a very hairy individual – devouring what looks to be an entire boar's leg. He is used to seeing people eat with their hands, as it is his own people's custom, but never has he seen an apparently intelligent being attack their food like a starving animal.

And the Aesir are surprised by _his_ manners? When _this_ is permitted at their high table?

He takes a deep breath to calm his rising temper and takes another sip of his water. He is finding Asgard and its people increasingly hard to understand, and it's only his first evening. It doesn't bode well for the joint future of their realms, but he refuses to make things more difficult by actually voicing his indignation.

His attention is caught by the Queen. "Are the rooms to your liking, Prince Loki?"

"They are indeed, Majesty," he replies smoothly. "Very comfortable. And the view of the gardens is most charming."

He'd barely looked at it, but his comment brings a warm smile to the Queen's lips. "They are lovely," she admits. "Would you care for a tour of them?"

It will involve being out in Asgard's bright sunlight for longer than he can reasonably bare, no doubt, but he accepts the offer with a smile of his own. To receive such an offer from the Queen herself is quite an honour, and it soothes his temper just a little.

…

Breakfast, he discovers, is much the same as dinner albeit colder and with less fantastic variety. The smells of fresh breads and pastries, and of roasted meats, assault his nose as he enters the hall and almost send him fleeing for the nearest bathroom. His child is yet to stop making him ill in the mornings, and the plainer foods that he would prefer to settle his stomach with are nowhere in sight.

Thankfully, there is no formal seating arrangement, so he takes a seat near to the door – in case he does need to excuse himself – and selects a plain roll of bread to nibble at. Again, he chooses water over mead, slightly disbelieving that the Aesir serve alcohol for breakfast.

He watches the Aesir as they go about their business, feasting with the same vigour that they had shown the previous night. He knows he probably looks strange in comparison, eating so little so slowly, but rushing his food would only make it harder for him to keep it down.

The doors slam open, and Prince Thor marches in, his companions from the previous evening gathered around him. They are speaking loudly of spars and jests, and the pale one that had stared at Loki at the feast says something that has them all laughing uproariously as they claim their seats. The hairy one immediately reaches for a roast, and Loki immediately averts his eyes before he has to watch the man eat again.

He doesn't think he could survive that.

His intelligence of Asgard has told him that Prince Thor is, in fact, older than he is. Watching him, he finds that incredibly hard to believe. The Ás prince acts as though he has no responsibilities or duties to his people, choosing instead to make merry to an almost obscene degree. There are rumours, in the other courts, of Asgard's royal bastards, but Loki doubts he will ever be able to verify such tales even though he doesn't doubt their veracity.

He reaches for another bread roll, and tears the end off of it, releasing delicious-smelling steam into the air. He is about to take his first bite when he is spotted and identified with a call of "Jotun!" and he freezes, bread half-way to his lips. He looks in the direction of the call, to see Prince Thor and his companions staring at him in fascination.

He wonders what their reactions would be if he pointed and cried "Aesir!"

He bows his head to them in acknowledgement and returns to his breakfast, though not for long, as they seem to take his nod as an invitation to gather around him, cutting off both his view of the hall as well as his easy escape route. He hides his automatic grimace by popping another piece of his roll into his mouth.

"You're very small," Prince Thor says, and Loki tries not to choke. _What?_ "I had imagined Frost Giants" – Loki tries not to flinch at the nickname for his people – "would be much bigger. Are you young for your people?"

"I am but a century younger than yourself," Loki replies, "which is to say, not young at all. I am an adult, albeit a short one."

He would explain that the ability to perform magic inhibits growth in Jotnar, due to the diversion it causes in their energy intake, but if Prince Thor honestly thought that Jotunheim would send a child on a diplomatic mission then a more complicated explanation is clearly beyond him.

But his answer seems to have sparked something in Prince Thor and his companions, for they immediately begin to bombard him with questions. "Why are you not dressed like the Jotun in our books?" "What do your markings mean?" "Is it true that you carve them into your newborn children?"

At the last question, he whips round to stare at the female who asked it. "I _beg_ your pardon?"

"I asked if it was true that you carve the markings into your children," she says as if _he_ was the idiot.

What kind of image do the Aesir _have_ of his people? The thought of putting a blade to his Jormungandr's skin makes him feel sick and he has to force himself to remain in his seat rather than run into the corridors and heave.

"No," he says sharply. "We're born with them." He sips his water, trying to wash away the taste of bile. "They show our lineage." Every mother passes his markings down to his children. The marks that decorate Loki's skin are the same as Laufey's, and the same as Nal's before him. "And I dress like this to protect my skin. Your sun is somewhat stronger than my own."

The hairy one takes a vicious bite out of a leg of _something_ and points the bone at Loki as he opens his mouth to speak. He hasn't finished chewing yet, and Loki feels his frustration – and nausea – rise once more. His three-year-old son has got the hang of this. How can a grown Ás not?

"But you do sacrifice infants to the winter, do you not?" he asks.

Okay, what _is_ the obsession with child mutilation here?

"No," Loki says coldly. "Why, is that a custom here?"

Not the politest thing he could ever have said, but the nature of their questions is beginning to disturb him. More than disturb him. His goblet, still loosely held in his fingers, is covered in a fine lacing of frost, and the water within it is frozen solid. He reigns in his powers as they Aesir splutter around him, crying denials to his question. Slowly, his water returns to liquid and the frost retreats, and Loki downs the remainder in a single gulp before excusing himself. He has a garden tour to get on with, and the thought of spending more time in the company of these imbeciles is making his skin crawl.

…

Queen Frigga meets him in the gardens, under the shade of some kind of tree covered in large purple blooms that perfume the air with their sweetness.

"I hear you made the acquaintance of my son this morning," she says when they begin their walk. Her hand is tucked into the crook of his elbow in a surprisingly intimate gesture that he has to fight not to shrug off. He is used to only being touched by his kin and his husband; strangers do not touch strangers on Jotunheim.

"Briefly," he admits. "I fear I did not respond well to his questions, or to those of his friends. I hope I have caused no offense."

"You did not," she says, "though I wonder that you were not offended." Oh, but Loki was. He was very offended. "Not much is known of your people here, and a lot of what we do know may be…inaccurate."

To say the least.

"I had noticed that," he says drily. "But it is the purpose of my visit, is it not, to build closer ties between our people? How can that happen without learning?"

She hums lightly, and Loki can't help but remember her husband's words from the night before: that Loki is here to learn, and the Aesir to provide his education. He is rapidly becoming aware of how his own ways are worthless in the eyes of Odin's court.

The more they walk, the more his eyes begin to hurt from the glare and his skin begins to turn dry. He is glad of the loose clothing that covers most of his body, and hyper aware of how warm he feels – of how every breath sears his lungs. Plants and flowers begin to blend together into one big, green blur. The Queen is talking, but he can barely understand a word that she's saying. He chooses to nod at regular intervals, though the movement makes him dizzy.

He is snapped out of his trance by the universally high-pitched chattering of children. He looks down in time to see a small flock of them racing across the lawns towards them. Their eyes are wide with curiosity and excitement, and they remind him so strongly of Jormungandr and his wide-eyed fascination with _everything_ that his heart clenches in his chest and he cannot help but smile at them.

Their teacher is a female Ás with long brown hair and rich, though simple, dress. He vaguely hears the Queen address her as Lady Sigyn, but by that point he is too busy crouching down to the level of the children and listening to their chatter.

He informs them that yes, he is well aware that he is blue. No, he is not sick, he is a Jotun from Jotunheim and it is perfectly normal for him to look this way. Why yes, he is short for a – shudder – Frost Giant, but that is because he can do magic, and with a flick of his wrist he demonstrates that fact– conjuring a kaleidoscopic swarm of butterflies that spiral over their heads and send them into fits of giggles.

Their curiosity is entirely different from the wilful ignorance of their elders and something he doesn't mind at all.

He lets a little girl with hair a beautiful shade of copper-red touch one of the jade bangles on his wrist, carved in the image of a serpent. Angrboda had made it for him as a gift when Jormungandr had been born, and Loki has only ever removed it for cleaning since. "Pretty!" she announces.

"I like it too," he admits. "It's one of my favourites."

She looks up at him with big blue eyes and beams, showing a gap in her front teeth. He grins back at her, and the children give a uniform awed gasp at the sight of his sharp, pointed teeth. They aren't afraid, though, as the boys suddenly press forward with questions of how they came to be like that.

"I was born that way," Loki tells them, and they pout with disappointment.

He hears soft laughter behind him, and he glances back – and up – to see the Queen and the teacher watching him with smiles on their lips. Suddenly embarrassed, he extricates himself from the crowd of children and stands. His dizziness returns and he sways slightly on his feet before managing to steady himself once more.

"You like children, I see," the Queen says, and with a start he realises that this is the first time she has looked upon him as something approaching an equal.

"I do, Majesty. They are hard not to like."

A small hand closes around his own, and he looks down to see the red-haired girl has latched onto him. Once more he longs for Jormungandr, and he allows her to hold on because – as long as he doesn't look at her – he can almost imagine that those small fingers belong to his son. Even so, he lets her go without complaint when her teacher decides that enough is enough and that they need to stop bothering Queen Frigga and her guest now. He almost protests – this brief encounter has been his best in Asgard so far – but he understands the importance of their lessons and bites his tongue.

He rejoins the Queen and they resume their walk in the hot, fragrant air. She leads him to a smaller garden, surrounded by stone – not gold, he is amazed – walls and filled with flowers that smell dizzyingly sweet. There is a bench there, in the shade, and when she sits he gratefully joins her, letting the cool of the stone seep into his bones. Maids provide them with drinks and sweet pastries before vanishing back into the palace through a door he hadn't noticed, almost entirely hidden by some sort of creeping plant that clings to the side of the building.

_Gilded_, he decides, _else it would not grow there_.

The first sip of chilled water is bliss. He closes his eyes in pleasure, and barely manages not to moan.

"Tell me of your family, Prince Loki," the Queen says. He crack open his eyes to look at her. "Do you have one?"

"I do," he says. "My parents gave me two younger brothers, and all of us are wed though the youngest does not yet have children. My other brother and I each have one." He has no desire to give her names or ages, as such things are private on Jotunheim. Children in particular are sacred to his people, regardless of what Asgard seems to think they do to them.

"And your wife? Does she desire more?"

Loki nods. "We are expecting another already," he says.

He will not tell her that it is he who is carrying, and who had already birthed a child. In his experience, the races that have separate genders tend to look down on those that carry their young – or, rather, try to subjugate them – and Asgard is no different, giving its women-folk a lesser status than the males. He would, no doubt, lose whatever respect he has here as soon as the words left his lips.

But she smiles at him brilliantly. "You are fortunate," she says, and sips her wine.

"Perhaps," he says. "I do not get to see them as often as I would like." And that is as close as he will ever get to mentioning the homesickness that already plagues him. "Prince Thor is your only child?"

"Yes," she replies.

He cannot read her expression at all, and he wonders whose decision it was to have one child and no more, and if she even regrets not having more. Having met her son, he can imagine her having her hands full with just him, but he realises that that is – perhaps – a little unfair. He hadn't been the most well-behaved child in the Nine Realms by a long way.

…

He is roused from his afternoon nap by knocking at his door, and he realises that he is about to miss the start of the evening meal. He opens it to admit Aelfred, who is already red-cheeked with the alcohol that the Aesir enjoy so much.

"Surely you cannot be sleeping!" he says.

_Indeed_, Loki thinks, _I am most definitely not asleep now. Odd, that, as I am standing before you quite awake._ "Is it dinner-time already?" he asks.

He simply cannot wait to endure another feast filled with scrutiny and idiotic questions. Truly, he is dying with anticipation.

"Verily," Aelfred says, "though it won't be as formal tonight. Far more relaxed. Why, the drinking has started already."

The drinking, Loki recalls, had started at breakfast. He glances down at his sleep-rumpled tunic and knows that his hair is in just as poor a state, and he sighs. "Give me a moment, Aelfred," he says, and closes the door before a reply can be given.

He changes his tunic for a plainer one – one that would, probably, be much better suited to someone of a lower status than his own – and he fixes his hair with magic and carefully rearranged pins before opening the door again and stepping out into the corridor. Aelfred, it turns out, did choose to wait for him, though Loki notices he has acquired one of the maids from somewhere and has busied himself with the study of the front of her dress and its…contents.

Coming from a race without such things, Loki has never been able to understand the other races' obsession with breasts. He finds the hard chest and strong arms of his beloved Angrboda to be much more pleasing to the eye.

He clears his throat, and they jump. "Shall we?" he asks, averting his gaze politely from the maid's rather hasty rearrangement of her clothing. Instead, he watches as Aelfred collects himself, his cheeks even more flushed than before, and allows himself to be escorted down to the great hall.

'Informal', he discovers, means 'ear-shatteringly loud' in Asgard. The prince and his ever-present friends are already carousing, flushed and singing bawdily between gulps of mead and mouthfuls of roast meat. He is abandoned by Aelfred at the door, as he is swept off by a young group of warriors wanting to hear his – probably exaggerated – tales of distant realms.

He jumps when a hand touches his elbow. He turns to see the teacher from that morning withdrawing her hand. She is flexing her fingers, but they are not frost-burnt – as though his control would slip enough to give her such an injury – and she offers him a timid smile.

"You look a little lost, Prince Loki," she says.

"A little," he admits, because for all the great tales he has heard of Asgard, he had not heard the slightest mention of the chaos the Aesir are capable of causing.

"Would you perhaps like to join me?" she asks.

He accepts with a nod, and follows her to one of the quieter corners of the room. He braces himself for her questions, which will no doubt be as inane as everyone else's, though he expects them to be of a subtler nature, similar to the Queen's.

"You do not drink?" she asks him when – again – he pours water for himself.

"I prefer to keep a clear mind," he tells her, which is true enough. "We do not have much alcohol in Jotunheim" – true – "and I find the effects of it unpleasant." Also true.

Which is not to say that he has never drank before, nor that he has never drank too much. There are occasions even on Jotunheim where excess is expected, but they import their wine from Alfheimr and it is greatly expensive. There is not much that grows on Jotunheim, and what little does is not good for fermenting, so his people have learned to entertain themselves in ways that do not result in headaches the next day – they dance and laugh and sing, and burn herbs over fires to create sweet-smelling smoke, and the pure energy it creates can make smiles linger for days afterwards.

In comparison to that, alcohol pales.

"I can see why you might say that," she says, casting a glance over his shoulder to where he knows the prince is sitting.

"People usually take it to mean I'm austere," he tells her.

"An austere man would not have entertained children so freely this morning," she replies.

She reaches out again and – far more hesitantly than her student that morning – touches Jormungandr's bangle on his wrist. "Does it mean something?" she asks, stroking the head of the carving.

"Not particularly," he admits. Serpents do not exist on Jotunheim, and so they aren't overly important in their culture. "But it is precious nonetheless."

"It's beautifully made," she says. "It almost looks alive." She withdraws her hand to pick up her cutlery, to cut herself a sliver of _something_ and slip it into her mouth.

Indeed, when the candle-light shimmers over carved scales, she is right. Angrboda is truly talented at his chosen profession, and it was his ability to carve such fine, delicate things that first attracted Loki to him – after all, if he knew how to create such small things, then he would be careful enough not to break them. To not break Loki.

"Do any of them mean anything?" she asks.

"Not as many as you're probably expecting," he replies. He is about to explain, that the girdle about his hips means that he is wed when a body lands in the seat next to him.

It is the prince's companion with the pale hair and the looks that make Loki uncomfortable. He leans away automatically, for the man is not only drunk but even creepier than usual, but the man leans in towards him, closing the space between them once more.

Loki scoots down the bench, and he pouts. "Don't be like that," he whines. "I only want" – his eyes rake down Loki's form – "to ask a question."

_Hardly_.

"I only wish to finish my dinner in peace," Loki retorts. "So ask, please, and leave me be."

"Moody," the man comments. He slips closer again, and rests his hand on Loki's thigh, and Loki feels his patience evaporate. The Ás' breath – reeking of mead – washes over Loki's ear as he speaks loud enough for almost the whole table to hear, even over the general din. "Is it true your people all look like men when they have cunts as well?"

"Lord Fandral!" the teacher squeaks, and Loki distantly realises that that must be the oaf's name even as he allows his body temperature to plummet.

The man draws back before his skin can truly burn from the cold, but he does leave some of it behind on Loki's hose. Loki doesn't care. "How can that _possibly_ be any of your business?" he demands. He is shaking as he rises to his feet, disgust and fury warring within him. He clenches his fists to stop them from trembling, and feels his fingernails draw blood.

The idiot, though, smirks up at him, as though he doesn't see the danger even as he clutches his wounded hand. "Don't get all angry, _princess_," he says. "I only want to help you improve _relations_ between our people. That's what you're here for, isn't it?"

"Damn diplomacy. Touch me again, and you will die for it," Loki hisses. If any of them touch him now, they will burn. He can hear the stone floor crackling under his feet as a layer of ice forms upon it. His magic is building in his fingertips and the tip of his tongue, ready to release seidr into the air.

He is not here to cause trouble, let alone start a war, but if any of them so much as suggest he is here to whore himself once more then he will carve a bloody swathe through Asgard, consequences be damned. He has vowed himself to Angrboda alone, and to those vows he will hold, and if he has to rip Yggdrasil itself apart to make sure of it then he will.

Prince Thor finally decides to step in. "Be at peace, Loki," he says. "Fandral speaks only in jest."

Jest. _Right_. He has been looking at Loki as the hairy one looks at meat ever since he first laid eyes on him, and the suggestion that his words could possibly be meant in jest makes Loki burst out laughing. He sounds hysterical, and he knows it, and he really doesn't care.

"Oh, but it was not in jest," he purrs. "Not to me. I know not how such things are viewed in Asgard, but I am wed and on Jotunheim such things are taken _very_ seriously. Touch me again, any of you, and I will kill you where you stand. Am I understood?"

There is silence around them – complete silence – and Loki leaves to it, the crunching of his frosted footsteps the only sound as he walks away.

…

Asgard's gardens are much more beautiful at night, when he can breathe their sweet scents without having his lungs scorched by the hot air. He hides himself under a tree and peers up through the branches at unfamiliar stars and a single, distant moon. His anger has faded, leaving grief in its wake and his sorrow chokes him.

His hands press against the swell of his growing child and he rubs gently at the taut flesh. He has never in his life felt further from home. Not even during his brief visit to Muspelheim, where he had been ill for days thanks to the ceaseless heat, has he felt so separated from his people. He has three more days here, just three, and he doesn't think that there's a way for him to survive them. Not without worsening the tensions between the realms instead of remedying them – though if tonight's performance is anything to go by, he can't help but wonder if Asgard is even considering an alliance, or if he is being taken for – as well as treated as – a fool.

He remains still under his tree until his back begins to ache and the tight sensation in his throat has eased. Then he rises to his feet and transports himself to his chambers with seidr, not wanting to risk meeting anyone in the halls if he dares to walk into the palace instead. Once there, he collapses fully clothed onto the too-large bed and falls into an uneasy rest.

There will be consequences for his actions tonight, but he cannot yet claim to know what they will be.

…

The idea comes to him as he wipes his mouth clean of vomit the next morning. He is sweating and shaking, and his mouth tastes utterly vile, but just because he has morning sickness, it does not mean he is without a brain. The Aesir seem entirely too ignorant for such a glorified race, and their response to him has been so…frustrating. But he has heard them mention books several times, books that mention Jotnar in some way. They are, he knows from his observations, highly inaccurate, but the exact extent of that inaccuracy is yet a mystery to him and he wants to find out.

He is sick of being out of his depth. It is time to discover exactly what it is that he is dealing with.

He stops by the great hall, more out of need for a guide than for food. The hall goes silent when he enters, his outburst has been well discussed, it seems. (There is little doubt in his mind that they have twisted it, made it so the crude creature that propositioned him is the victim of Loki's 'unreasonable' temper.) Aelfred is sitting with Prince Thor and his companions, and they all look displeased by Loki's appearance. Lady Sigyn, however, does not, and she is once more slightly separate from her fellow Aesir. He makes his way over to her, snatching some bread rolls from one of the tables that he passes.

"My Lady," he says, "I was wondering if, perhaps, I could borrow you for a moment."

"Prince Loki?" Her brown eyes are wide and filled with worry.

He sighs. "I have frightened you," he says. When she gives him a faint, trembling smile, he knows he is correct. Now he needs to correct that. "I will not apologise for defending myself," he says, "but I am sorry that I have given you reason to look upon me with such fear. My anger was not intended for you. I was enjoying our conversation until we were interrupted."

Her smile strengthens, and he knows he has won.

She lowers her cutlery and waves a hand, indicating that he should sit and join her. He does so reluctantly. Whispers are starting to rise up around him once more, and he would prefer to be out of the hall before Prince Thor or any of his companions can force him into yet another confrontation. He knows it will happen eventually – he seems destined to clash with those particular Aesir – but he would much rather reduce the risk of it as much as possible. He doubts now, that the peaceful alliance he had hoped to build will ever be created – he doubts that, if they knew what the Aesir think of them, his people would even want it – but that is no reason to risk open war.

He rips off a piece of bread and pops it into his mouth. Just like the day before, it is the plainest thing on offer.

"What is it that you desire of me?" Lady Sigyn asks.

"I wish for a guide," Loki tells her.

She shakes her head. "I cannot give you a tour, I'm afraid. I have the children to teach."

"Of course, though it is not a tour I seek. I would like to visit your library, if a thing is at all possible."

She brightens at that. "That is something I can do," she tells him. "The library is on the way to my classroom. Walking you there shall be no problem at all."

"Thank you, my Lady."

…

Loki has long been of the opinion that libraries are magical places. No matter what manner of books they contain – bound vellum tomes, such as his own people have, or parchment scrolls; books of history or magic or children's' tales – the hush that fills them is a universal thing. With every step he takes into the room, his pulse calms and his senses heighten. His mind, usually whirling with thoughts, becomes unnaturally focussed.

He wanders through the stacks inhaling the rich scent of parchment and ink and feels at peace. Slowly, he begins to collect books on the different races, finding only two specifically about his people. Their bindings are gloriously elaborate – leather dyed and intricately patterned, clasped shut with hooks of silver. He takes them to a small table that sits tucked away in a back corner and settles to read.

What he finds is…horrifying.

The books are as decorated within as they are without. Bright inks and gold leaf create brilliant images that sear themselves into his brain. Some of them will give Loki nightmares, he knows, like the illustrations of ritual sacrifice and cannibalism. The – inaccurately – red blood is stark and gruesome against the cobalt that was used to paint his brethren.

He tries to focus on the words instead, but finds them even more disturbing.

What is told of his people in these tomes is far from the reality he knows. What may have been true once – the tribal warfare, the devouring of the hearts of kings – is now a good eight thousand years out of date and no longer true at all. (If it were, then Loki would never be king, for never could he raise a weapon against his mother and carve Laufey's heart from his body.) The one fact that has not changed since these books were written is that his people are of both genders at once, though the author – ignorant – condemns it, and them, as _argr_. Apparently, it's a horrendous insult for the Aesir.

Loki slumps in his chair and lets out an undignified snort of laughter. His hand drops to rub against the swell of his unborn, comforting. In honesty, he finds it difficult to believe this situation he has found himself in real at all, but real is exactly what it is. He understands, now, why Bestla left this place. It wasn't because of the odd looks or the heat or the endless sunlight, though they may have helped; it was the assumption that he was a savage, child-mutilating monster and an unwillingness to see him as anything else.

His visits to different realms and among different races have taught him that the Aesir believe themselves to be the greatest of all races. His visit to Asgard has only confirmed that. But their belief that they are better is based on falsehood – they know, and care to know, so little about others.

He pushes the books away and rests his brow upon the table.

"Be thankful you are in there," he whispers to his stomach, "and unaware of what is thought of you."

_Argr. Unmanly. As if a cock and a set of balls make anyone great – it is a person, their wits and their skills and their passions that do that, not what lies between their legs._

He rests for a time, glad of the library's cool air and its comforting shadows. He lifts his head only when he hears footsteps behind him, and a voice call his name. It is Aelfred.

He sits uninvited and fixes Loki with an angry look. "Do you have any idea what you have done?" he asks.

He is referring to the previous evening, Loki knows. He grits his teeth. "I defended myself, my honour, and the honour of my family from the advances of a brute."

"You threatened to kill one of the Prince's closest companions."

"And is it my fault your Prince chooses to keep such vile company?" he demands. "Tell me, Lord Aelfred, what exactly have you been doing that your people equate diplomacy with prostitution?"

The Ás inhales sharply at the slight, as well he should, given that Loki has just called him a whore. But before he can say whatever response is growing on his tongue, Loki speaks again.

"I will admit that I overreacted, but I do not regret it. As hard as it may be for you to understand, I am not some lesser being for your people to use as they will. I am neither without dignity, nor beyond defending it."

He stands and stares down at Aelfred. Just days ago, he had regarded the man as something close to a friend – a respected colleague at least – but it is apparent that respect only ever went one way and Loki is tired of it. He leaves the books where they lay, useless things, though he waves a hand towards them.

"They are out of date. Eight thousand years is a long time for any people to grow and change."

And with that, he leaves.

…

The hunting trip is intended to be an apology, he thinks. He's not entirely sure how, or indeed, how he is expected to let the slights he has suffered slide, but the fact remains that he is to go hunting the next day with Prince Thor, his companions, and Aelfred.

Loki has no skill with prophecy and the art of seeing the future, but he does not need it to know that this can only lead to more misunderstandings and difficulties. It will also lead to a day of horrible discomfort, with him shoved on a horse and forced to spend a day in the sun with a group of buffoons.

He smiles and accepts the offer, and inwardly curses Aelfred for doing this to him – it is obviously his idea, given the smug look on his face and the way that he assures the King that all will go well. It would seem that Loki has seriously overestimated his intelligence. Either that or the return to Asgard has dulled the wits he had admired in the Ás.

From across the table, he sees Prince Thor's female companion glower into her soup. The hand of the one that dared to treat him like a whore is bandaged, though that doesn't stop it from twitching closed into a fist.

Loki glances at Aelfred once more. This plan of his will ease tensions, he informs the King with a smile.

_War,_ he thinks, _can be seen as a release. Pray it does not result in that instead._

…

Judging by the colouring and the cynical expression in its liquid-dark eye, the horse they present him with the following morning is the same one he rode on his way to the citadel. He hooks his fingers through its bridle and tried to quell his nausea while gently petting the velvet skin of its nose. He suspects it is dreading spending the day with him on its back, incapable of doing much more than holding on.

"You and me both," he murmurs. Its ear flicks in his direction and it gives a soft snort of acknowledgement.

It is sad, but barring Lady Sigyn and her students, this exchange with a horse is the friendliest conversation he's had in days.

"Are you ready?" Aelfred calls across to him.

He and the others are already mounted, sitting tall and proud upon their steeds as if they were born to be there. Loki and his horse exchange looks, brief and despairing, before his hands move in time with a silent incantation and with a flicker of seidr he is on its back. He retrieves his reigns, and looks up only to find the Prince and his companions looking at him in…

What _is_ that expression exactly? Amusement, disgust, horror, or all three combined? Aelfred just looks awkward, much like he did when he first witnessed Loki performing magic. He had given no reason for the look then, and his reasoning escapes Loki even now.

He suspects that Asgard has some ridiculous notions about magic that he has just shattered into pieces. A misunderstanding already and they haven't even left the castle grounds.

"Are we going?" he asks.

The sooner they set off, the sooner they find some strange beast and slay it, the sooner this will all be over.

"You use women's arts," the Prince says.

"Do I?" Loki replies. He wishes he could understand the Aesir's fascination with genitalia and their obsession with dividing the world into male and female. But at the same time, he is glad he does not understand. Such an existence would be interminable.

"Magic," the Prince goes on. "On Asgard it is for women alone to wield. Any man who does so is considered ergi."

Loki wonders how he would react to be reminded of his father's reputation as a sorcerer, but he is not here to start a fight. Instead he simply shrugs. "One of the few things your people know of mine is that we cannot be divided between two sexes, for we are both and neither all at once. Why then, should your customs be applied to me? Particularly when you do not apply them to yourselves – war is for the males of your people, is it not? Why, then, does a female warrior ride by your side?"

"Lady Sif is greatly skilled."

"I did not say she was not. I said she was breaking your customs, but that you seem to accept it. What makes it so different for me?"

The Prince does not seem to have an answer. For that, Loki is glad. Any answer would no doubt be riddled with half-meant insults, and besides, the rolling gait of the beast beneath him is making him feel sick once more.

_You punish me, child,_ he thinks, and fights the urge to press his hand to his belly. Such a movement would be noticed, he knows, and he has no desire for that, nor a particular desire to let go of the reigns either. _Be kind to your mother. There are enough troubles in the world without your mischief._

"I had thought Fandral was joking when he said such things of your race," Prince Thor says after a while. "That it was the result of too much mead and a sordid imagination."

Loki glances at him from the corner of his eye. The Prince looks embarrassed by his own boldness. He sighs.

"I have read what books you have about my people in your library," he says. "That was the only true thing in them." He presses his lips together as his stomach churns, and he swallows the sickness down. (Jormungandr had never been this bad, but his mother did say that each child would be different.) "It does not mean that his advances were welcome, however."

Prince Thor snorts. "So I saw," he says. "You are fierce when riled. It is true that you are wed?"

"I am."

"Then I beg of you, say not so to my mother." The Prince shoots him a roguish grin that – startlingly – reminds Loki of his brother Helblindi. "She has plans to marry me off as soon as she can, and if she hears a rival Prince has taken a wife…"

Loki grins. "Too late," he says. "We spoke a little of my family when the Queen gave me a tour of the gardens, and she knows that all of Laufey's sons are married. Some of us even with children."

The Prince swears, and Loki cannot help but laugh at him. He isn't angry, though he glares at Loki a little; rather he is chagrined, and the difference means all the world.

…

They stop for lunch at the edge of a great wood. The trees are thick-trunked even here, and tall, and Loki knows that they must be taller further in. Such is the way of forests, he has heard. (His experiences of such things are, as with his experiences with horses – until recently – purely theoretical.) He leans back against a tree that towers as tall as a Jotun, glad of its shade, and reaches for his water flask, chilling it with a touch.

His companions unpack their lunches, spreading meats and breads and cheeses out upon cloths and cutting into them with sharp daggers. Their conversation is light-hearted and their laughter merry. He half-listens as they discuss the hunting conditions – firm ground, good light – and sips his water quietly.

Asgard's countryside is, from what he could tell as they rode, made up of rolling hills and scattered farmsteads, crossed by glittering streams, and patched with smaller groups of trees than this. It is all so very green and bright, and much more pleasant than the grandeur of the citadel. Here there are far fewer pretences; rural Asgard is simply alive and so lovely for it. (It's a shame that it's so hot here, and that he'll only get to see these places while sunlight is stinging his eyes.) The roads they have travelled along are quite plain as well, cobbled in the city, but soon reduced to dirt tracks rutted from cartwheels. It is another difference between Asgard and his home. Though the roads on Jotunheim are as icy as the rest of the planet, they have a smooth surface maintained by a small army of Jotnar. Travel there is much faster too: thanks to the Jotun ability to manipulate ice they don't have to rely on beasts.

Eventually, he reaches for his own lunch and unpacks it tentatively. He has been given the same as the others. The bread is soft and still slightly warm under his fingers, the meat rich and greasy. He has no idea what sort of meat it is, but it tastes well enough, and he licks its juices from his wrist where they've dropped onto his skin. There's a slight dip in conversation, then, and he glances over at the Aesir to find them watching him once more.

He wants to scream at them. Wants to demand what they find so bloody fascinating about him this time. Instead he settles for a "Yes?"

"You aren't using your dagger, Prince Loki," Aelfred says. "It's impolite."

Loki raises his eyebrows. "This concept of using tools to eat is foreign to me, remember?" _And besides, your hairy friend is doing much the same as I, only far messier._

There's a muffled laugh from the female and his would-be assailant. Their hypocrisy, given their friend, is astonishing.

"It is too cold for metal tools on Jotunheim," Loki elaborates. "They have a tendency to shatter."

What metal there is comes imported ready-shaped from Svartalfheimr, and is reserved for finery like the delicate links in his wedding girdle, as it would be impossible to get a forge hot enough on Jotunheim to smelt it. And even that is a special metal – a rare one that is difficult for the Svartalfar to find – that is resistant to Jotunheim's extreme temperatures.

There is a reason most of their weapons are made of the ice they so easily create, and that their finery is crafted of jade. When your world is frozen, such adaptations have to be made.

He rips off a small piece of cheese and places it tentatively on his tongue while the Aesir process his words. It tastes…not good, and smells worse. He swallows it anyway, but discards the rest of the small round, and bites into his bread before his vengeful child can turn his stomach against him once more.

His attempt at deception doesn't quite work.

"Are you unwell?" Apparently it is noticeable, now, even to people as unobservant as Prince Thor.

"The cheese does not agree with me, I'm afraid. Would you like it?"

He can smell it from where it sits on its cloth, pungent and vile, like clothing that has been worn too long. When the hairy one says he will take it, Loki tosses it to him with no small amount of relief. How people can eat such things…though he supposes that the pickled eels his people see as a delicacy might be difficult for others to stomach.

In fact, they sound fairly disgusting to him at the moment. _You aren't making this easy, my little one. Not at all._

"You don't eat much, I've noticed," the hairy one says, cutting a hunk of cheese and stuffing it in his mouth. Barely pausing to chew, he says, "You don't like our fare?"

"I like it well enough," Loki admits. The bread is good, and the vegetables suit his tastes as well – and when his child is feeling merciful, he enjoys the rich meats that they serve. "'Tis different from home, of course, but many things are. I don't recognise a lot of it, I'm afraid."

"What do Jotun eat? Apart from each other?" the woman asks.

Loki sighs. "The plural is Jotnar, and we aren't cannibals," he says. "Not anymore, at least, and even when we were it was an unusual practise." She looks sceptical. "We eat fish, mostly. Our seas are rich with life." The heat from underwater volcanoes means that it is warmer down there than on the surface, and rich with minerals. Plants and animals flourish under the thick sea ice, and the closest most Jotnar get to hunting is ice fishing.

"Jotunheim has _seas_?"

Loki pinches the bridge of his nose. "More sea than land, actually, though the ice over both is thick."

"Of course," the one who propositioned him says. "All things on Jotunheim are frozen, it seems. Even the people."

Loki's eyes narrow. But before he can speak, Prince Thor does it for him. "Be at peace, Fandral. Prince Loki has made his feelings clear. You should not taunt him so."

But the woman is smirking, and the other companion – who usually stands silent – has a smile lurking at the corner of his mouth.

"True enough," the hairy one states through a mouthful of meat. "You know your womanizing causes trouble."

"He's _hardly_ a woman," the female Ás sneered.

"Lady Sif, that is not the point," Aelfred said sharply. "The point is…diplomacy."

_Well,_ Loki thinks. _Thank the Norns someone's finally got it._

…

He slips out of the feast relatively early that night, exhausted from the day's riding and the company. The Aesir are well into their cups and Loki – sick of being the sober one – has little patience for their frivolity when he feels so tired. He barely notices the path he takes back to his rooms, but when he has found them, he closes the door and sits on the edge of the bed.

He is partway through undoing his hair, removing the pins and the spells that keep them in place, when there is a tap at the door. He looks up, confused, and stands to answer it, only opening it a crack.

On the other side is the female Ás who keeps the company of Prince Thor. Sif, the others had called her. She is frowning at him as she usually does, and Loki leans against the doorframe, curious. He has given her no reason to seek him out, and her attitude has implied that she would only do so when under pressure from another. Why, then, she is outside his chambers, is a mystery to him.

"Can I help you?" he asks.

"May I come in?"

The last thing he wants is her in the place that he is intended to sleep. "I don't think that would be appropriate," he says drily. "I will join you in the corridor."

Red infuses her cheeks. "I am not Fandral!" she hisses.

"I didn't think you were," he replies. "But your people value chastity in their women, do they not? Entering the room of a foreign, ah" – damn the Asgardian language and its bi-gendered prejudices – "foreign entity would be unseemly."

She bristles, but nods and steps back. He pauses but a moment to leave the pins he has removed on a side table before following her out into the hall.

He finds her pacing, opposite his door. As soon as he closes it behind him, she rounds on him, her eyes flashing fierce. "Why are you here?"

"Excuse me?"

"You heard me. Why have you come here?"

He's missing something, he can tell. The offense she has taken over his presence is unreasonable – it had started long before he had shown any hostility towards any of the Aesir. "I am here to try and improve diplomatic relations between Asgard and Jotunheim, in a way unrelated to your Lord Fandral's suggestion," he says. "Clearly it isn't going very well. In which case, when I leave I shall council my people not to bother yours unless they are provoked to do so."

She is still frowning.

"Why did you think I had come here?" he asked.

"Your people are savages," she says. "The only love you have is for the land that bore you. There is no honour in your people, or honesty. Why should I – why should we – believe anything you say?"

His breath catches in his throat. Beneath his ribs, his heart pounds, and rage courses white-hot through his veins.

"Believe Aelfred, then," he says. "He is one of your people. One of your poorly-educated, ignorant, arrogant people. If you ask him, you shall hear I am leaving the day after tomorrow." It isn't soon enough, not by far, but he cannot make it come sooner.

"Arrogant?"

He has offended her, how sad. "How else would you call a race who believes themselves so far above everyone else that they care not about anyone unlike themselves?"

She splutters. "We have been hospitable –"

"If you count hospitality as confronting your guests with half-baked suspicions of plots and schemes, based entirely on the wildly inaccurate view your people holds of mine." He laughs softly at the expression on her face. "Goodnight, _Lady_," he says, and returns to his chambers, closing the door in her flushed face.

He sets about changing for bed once more, but his hands are trembling as he removes the rest of his hair pins, and they leave traces of frost on the table when he puts them down. The woman's vitriol has unsettled him almost as much as the advances of her friend.

He wants, so badly, to go home.

…

He is awoken the next morning by Aelfred knocking on his door. It is his last day on Asgard, and already Loki is looking forward to not waking up to see sunlight filtering through the cracks in his curtains. He shuffles to the door, and opens it, disturbing Aelfred min-knock and almost getting a fist to the face for his troubles.

"The King has requested an audience with you," Aelfred tells him. He looks pleased with this development, as though he expects it to reflect well on him.

Loki takes a deep breath. This will be the first time since his greetings that he has had the chance to speak to Odin properly. He seriously doubts that the conversation will go the way the King is no doubt expecting it to. He is past the point of accepting any of the Aesir's condescension.

"When does he request my presence?" he asks.

"After breakfast," Aelfred replies. "I will escort you to him myself."

"Thank you."

He must hurry, then, to make himself look presentable for such an occasion. It would not do for the Crown Prince of Jotunheim to meet a foreign King while looking like anything less than what he is. He heads quickly for the bathroom: his child is making itself known once more.

When he has finished, and his ablutions are complete, he returns to his chambers to select the finest of the clothes he has brought with him. The tunic is emerald green silk, purchased on a diplomatic visit to Vanaheim; the hose, black leather. He braids his hair with leather thongs that have been threaded with emeralds, rubies and sapphires, and loops those braids up to fix them in place with his jade pins. The rest of his finery is too put in its rightful places, and when he is done, Loki veritably _glitters_ with riches.

It is something the Aesir, with their love of all things shining, should appreciate. A shame, then, that this is more for his pride than theirs.

He opens the door to discover that Aelfred has been waiting for him. His eyes widen and his gaze flicks appreciatively over Loki's form, lingering on the jewels that shimmer like coloured stars in the midnight of Loki's hair. "You look incredible," he murmurs, and Loki knows it to be the truth.

He gives Aelfred a slight smile, and a nod, before turning in the direction of the hall. He isn't hungry in the slightest, but the sooner the pretence of breakfast is over, the sooner he can do what he came to this place for – his job – though he doubts that he will get very far, no matter his skill with words. The Allfather's greeting had been too…telling for him to have such a hope, and that had been before the opinions of his people had made themselves known. He supposes the best he can do now is to try and shatter the illusion of being a noble savage while trying not to worsen tensions and start a war.

To think he had been dreaming of trade.

…

Odin sits on his great, golden throne at the top of a golden dais, with a long golden spear held in his right hand. Perched above him are two large black birds, and they chatter and croak at one another as Loki approaches their master. The King is still and oddly forbidding, the birds his only company in his gilded hall. Loki can't help but compare him with his mother; Laufey is often surrounded by courtiers and advisors – is seen as a kind and personable King amongst their people, and he is beloved by them. Odin's power is his alone, and while he may be respected, Loki cannot see him being loved by any outside of his family.

Though perhaps he is being harsh. So many things are different here. So many.

"Odin-King, you asked to see me," he says, bowing once he reaches the bottom of the dais.

"I did." His voice is strong, yet soft. Like Laufey – ah, a similarity at last – he does not need to raise his voice to be heard in his own court, regardless that Loki is his only audience. Aelfred left him at the door. "I was curious as to how you have found Asgard."

Loki had thought it would be something like that. He takes a deep breath and releases a sigh. He could lie. He could so easily lie and save his truths for the court of his mother instead, but he doesn't want to. He has already been too honest in Asgard to lie to its King now.

"May I speak truthfully, Your Highness?"

"Please do."

"When I came here, my thoughts were of building ties with your beautiful realm. I sought to gain some understanding of your people and your ways, and perhaps to see the Asgard that is spoken of in legends throughout all of Yggdrasil."

"Is that not what you found?"

Loki's breath catches in his throat, and in his chest his heart stutters. Odin is dangerous – a warrior through and through – and his demeanour is suddenly threatening.

"I found many things, Your Highness," he says. "But what stood out the most – I am sorry to say, as your realm is truly great – was the dislike your people hold for mine, based on nothing but outdated fairy tales from your libraries."

Odin's expression is unreadable.

"So while I came here to seek an improvement in the relations between Asgard and Jotunheim, I cannot say that I have found a way to do so." He licks his lips to wet them, but his tongue is dry and rasps like sandpaper against his skin. "I do not think your people are ready."

"This is how you truly feel?" Like his face, Odin's soft voice is utterly neutral. It makes Loki nervous.

"It is, Your Highness," he says. "There is much that our worlds could learn from each other, and I hope – truly – that one day they may do so, but you cannot force an unwilling student. As such, I am ceasing diplomatic action towards the realm of Asgard until further notice."

A notice that will most likely not come within his lifetime.

For the first time he finds himself truly wondering what Odin had thought would come of Loki's visit. The King doesn't seem overly disappointed as he taps his spear against the dais, creating a loud ringing noise that echoes from the walls and in Loki's ears.

"So be it, Loki Laufeyjarson," he says. There is no argument, no request to reconsider. The King is resigned and so must Loki be with the outcome that has been wrought.

He shall return to his chambers and pack. He will attend the feast that evening, and say his farewells to Lady Sigyn and Aelfred, and tomorrow he will leave and not look back upon this golden world.

He thinks, perhaps, he will be able to do so without regret.

…

The journey out of Asgard is taken the same way as the one into it – by horse along the length of the Bifrost – but this time he has more company. Prince Thor rides alongside him on his great white steed, talking merrily about what they must do upon Loki's next visit. He sounds so happy and childlike that Loki can't find it in him to say that he's not coming back. On his other side, Aelfred keeps glancing at him knowingly. He, at least, has guessed.

Still, the Prince's chatter is a welcome distraction from the sight in front of him. The Bifrost was unnerving enough in the other direction, dropping away as it does first into sea and then into abyss. Coming this way, only the blackness of space and its brilliant stars lie ahead, and it is utterly horrible. When not looking at Thor, Loki has to stare at the twitching ears of his long-suffering mount in order not to faint or vomit all over the place.

The irritating bravado of the Aesir warriors is, however, completely demystified. _If this,_ he thinks, _is the only way off their planet, then it is no wonder they search out the most dangerous of situations in which to fling themselves. They must prove themselves mad beyond all measure to gain any respect for their 'courage'._

He dismounts with seidr outside of the golden observatory that he will depart from. The exact workings of the Bifrost are unknown to him, but he suspects that it runs on a similar source of power to Utgarðr – the capital city of Jotunheim, which is powered by the Casket of All Things. (In the books in Asgard's library, they called it the Casket of Ancient Winters, a mistranslation that made him laugh – what do Jotun know of winter, when their world is one permanently encased in ice?) It is similar, but so different, like so many things here are.

Different, but just similar enough that it hurts.

The gatekeeper, Heimdall, looks impassively down at him as he takes his position in front of the gate. The Ás' amber gaze is as distant as the stars, and just as cold. Loki turns away from it and looks to Aelfred instead.

Are there words that can mend the gap that has grown between them these past days?

He summons a smile to his lips. "Thank you for showing me your home, Aelfred. I have learned much." True, but he has learned little that is good.

But it is good enough for Aelfred. "Farewell, Prince Loki," he replies. "Will I see you at the meeting on Svartalfheimr?"

That meeting is in three months, and Loki will be unable by then. His child – much like its brother – already takes for its father in size; in three months he will barely be able to walk.

"I do not think so," he says. "Our treaties with Svartalfheimr are strong. There is no need for me there."

And if they need to send someone, it will be Byléistr. Helblindi has no patience for long negotiations; Byléistr is a priest so he is used to boredom.

Aelfred looks surprised by his answer, as if the fact that Jotunheim's alliances are strong is somehow shocking. Loki holds back a sigh and resolutely does not pinch the bridge of his nose in despair. He is about to leave. He is past caring.

"Goodbye," he says.

Aelfred steps back and nods to Heimdall. Loki misses how the Bifrost is activated; he is too busy staring out into the void beyond the observatory. All he hears is a high whine from behind him before white light – that is not white at all, but all the colours of the rainbow – envelops him and the universe blurs around him.

He lands in the cold and the dark. The sky above him is lit by three moons that peek through pale clouds – falling snow catches in his hair and on his skin. In the distance, the lights of Utgarðr glimmer just as brilliantly, and on the horizon the sun is just beginning to rise. He tips back his head and sticks out his tongue to catch a flake of snow upon it, and when he does he cannot help but laugh. It tastes of home.

…

His mother sits on a throne of ice, one long leg crossed over the other. The lamp-light makes the jade decorating his throat, wrists and ankles shine and picks out the jewelled embroidery in his long, red skyrta. He is reading, when Loki enters, but looks up from the document when he sees Loki approaching, passing it to a servant with a soft murmur.

He leans down from his great throne and stretches out a hand to his eldest child, brushing the back of his finger gently over Loki's chest.

When Loki had been young, he had been too small for Laufey to care for properly, and had been passed into the care of Svartalfar nurses instead. That gesture had been his parents' way of embracing him before he'd grown strong enough for them to hug him properly, and still it makes warmth flood through him.

"Mother," he greets. "My King. I have returned from Asgard."

"So I see," Laufey replies, sitting back and staring down at him. "How was it?"

"Interminable," Loki replies. "I…the…" He sighs, searching for the right words. "The legendary greatness of the Aesir is surpassed only by their ignorance. They were rude, ill-educated, ill-mannered, and utterly impossible. I cannot recommend enough that Jotunheim leaves them alone – they are not yet ready for a friendship between our races."

Laufey's eyebrows rise. "Truly?"

"I was invited to 'improve relations' by bedding one of the Prince's companions," Loki tells him. That one moment has, unfortunately, ended up defining the entire visit. "What little knowledge they have of our people comes from books eight thousand years out of date and they do not – for the most part – seek to improve upon that knowledge. Not without insult."

His mother props his chin on his hand and hums softly. "A pity," he says eventually. "There were so many hopes that the days of tension between our realms would be over."

"Maybe one day they will be," Loki says. "But the Aesir need to grow up before they can."

Laufey nods. "Very well, my little one. I trust your judgement in this as always. Tell me, though, was the Allfather displeased with the result?"

"Not in the slightest," Loki replies truthfully.

And with that it is done. He has ended any chance of an alliance with Asgard, and all he can feel is relief at the thought.


End file.
